


fix me to a chain (around your neck)

by cherryvanilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Character Study, Drinking, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, F/M, Family, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Pining, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: Dean knows better than anyone that there are no real warning signs that lead up to the most formative moments in your life.  Still, he can’t help but feel like he should've seen this one coming.(Or, 5 firsts that Dean experiences without Sam + 1 he experiences with him.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eternalsojourn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/gifts).



> Apparently all it takes to get me to write something is for me to exclaim "I'm not writing this." So, yeah. Here's the Stanford-era Dean POV pining fic I refused to write. Thanks to Rena for all her cheerleading and Abby for great beta <3 
> 
> Note that there's no underage in this, but there is a one-off mention of Dean wanting Sam since Sam was 16. 
> 
> Title by Brand New. Lyrics by Halsey.

_Your laugh echoes down the highway_  
_Carves into my hollow chest_  
_Spreads over the emptiness_  
_It's bliss_

1.

His first hunt without Sam shouldn’t be anything of note. After all, it’s not like Sam always went on hunts anyway. Especially the older he got. Too busy with trying to graduate or playing soccer or actually trying to make a friend before they up and left again. That last one rarely happened. For the most part, Sam stuck to himself if he could help it, beyond any extra-curricular activities. When he did make a friend, Dean would feel a bloom of jealousy swell in his chest, as if it was Sam’s unspoken declaration that Dean wasn’t enough for him.

He always told himself that was fucking stupid, and that insecure shit like that had no place in the mind of a Winchester. 

And then Sam left for good. 

So, yeah, the first hunt Post-Sam -- it was notable. It couldn’t not be. Because it didn’t matter that Sam wasn’t there with him, that he probably wouldn’t have been anyway. What mattered was that it was September, and Sam was 2,000 miles away. What mattered was that Dean was about to drive back to the motel in an hour, and Sam wouldn’t be waiting at the door with a bitchy expression wavering between relief and exasperation as he held the first-aid kit in his hand, ready to patch Dean up. 

Dean wouldn’t get to watch Sam push his floppy hair out of his eyes as he pursed his lips in concentration, tending to Dean’s wound. He wouldn’t get to hear Sam ask, “So, scale of one to ten?” like he always did and listen to Dean’s bravado while rolling his eyes in too-fond fashion. 

He wouldn’t get to breathe in Sam’s clean scent and his dumb CK One perfume (“It’s _cologne_ , Dean.” “Whatever you say, princess.”) while taking a swig from a half-empty bottle of Jack, his fingers gripping the cool glass tightly so they wouldn’t have the desire to reach for anything else. 

Sometimes, in his darker moments, he wonders if Sam figured it out. If it was one of the reasons -- or god forbid _the_ reason he left. Those thoughts would send Dean on a bender that rivaled one of Dad’s during the month of Mom’s death and leave him gasping for air at the thought of Sam being so utterly repulsed by him that he had to escape for four years with the possibility of never returning. And then Dean would sober up and reason that Sam isn’t that much of a coward. His brother is one of the bravest people he’s ever known, brave enough to escape the catacomb of their world and try to make it on his own in a way that Dean had always dreamed about, yet could never manage. 

It didn’t matter if Dean had wanted to go to school (newsflash: he did), it didn’t matter if Dean longed for a life without hunting (surprise: he _did_ ), all of that got pushed down for the sake of family. For his dad needing his sons by his side on this crazy quest. For Sam, always for Sam. 

So, no, Dean didn’t think Sam would run from him if he’d figured it out. Sam would confront him, would try to figure it out like a puzzle needing solving. 

And Dean would say, “Do your worst,” because he’s been living with these feelings since Sam turned 16 and suddenly wasn’t just his scrawny little brother anymore but Dean’s entire world wrapped up in too-long legs and compact muscle and a smile that Dean could hardly stand to look at some days, when he’d actually had something to smile about. 

Dean’s been living with them for two years, and it’s _still_ not a puzzle he can solve, and it's not one he can drink away, either. 

That’s the first month Post-Sam. He doesn’t let himself think how many more there are to go.  
____________________________

2\. 

Dean knows he’s a good-looking guy. There are mirrors in motel room bathrooms, okay. He just never really realized -- until he had nothing else to divide his attention -- how much women also recognized that. He didn’t exactly grow up with built-in social cues. Hell, he’d felt pretty damn awkward in his own skin as a teenager; the only time he felt at ease was when he was arguing with Sam, or teasing Sam, or protecting Sam. He’s aware it isn’t healthy -- how he thinks of himself as one part of a whole, when Sam was able to leave him behind -- but it's not a mentality he can break, no matter how hard he’s tried. 

So when he starts frequenting bars alone after hunts, Dad back at the motel and Dean having no excuse to stay in because there’s no one sharing his room anymore, it becomes clear that there’s something else he can lose himself in besides a bottle. 

He’d put on a good show for Sammy when they were younger, inventing tales of girls at school that he got to second base or beyond with. It was worth it to see Sam’s eyes go wide and his face flush. But in actuality, Dean didn’t get nearly as much action as he’d ever claimed. He’d been with a handful of girls since losing his virginity at 17, which had already been a late start in his opinion (ane one year later than he’d bragged to Sam). He overanalyzed it too much, felt the awkwardness around him like a noose. He always wanted more time -- to get to know someone, to do things slower, take his time. Instead, each encounter came with a time limit and a vaguely unsatisfying feeling. Even those few days with Lisa in her loft had left him wanting. 

Now, though, it seems like the most perfect set-up ever. A chance to throw himself into meaningless sex with no attachments. The first time he swaggers over to a woman at a bar who’s been giving him the eye half the night, he’s thinking of Sam. Wondering what Sam is doing that very moment. If his nose is buried in a book, if he’s made any friends, if he’s slept with anyone. 

The girl’s name is Rachel. She’s a vet tech. She’s got an older brother and a younger sister. Dean doesn’t care about anything but making her moan his name when he takes her out back behind the bar. 

He doesn’t think about Sam again until he’s brushing her bangs out of her face as he slams into her, her legs wrapped around his waist, her back scraping against the brick of the building. 

He exhales shakily into her shoulder and wordlessly forms a one-syllable name instead of two. 

That’s the first hook-up Post-Sam. Over the next four years, he stops counting how many there are.  
_____________________________

3\. 

Dean hates texting. He’s gotta pound a key three times to get to a letter just to type something he can say on the phone in a second. Dad thinks it’s a pretty great and convenient way to send shorthand code and coordinates while on hunts, though, so Dean sucks it up and deals. He doesn’t think about how they’ve been splitting up lately. He thought Sam’s absence would bring them even closer together -- make Dad cling to his remaining son -- but if anything it's made him more distant. And to be honest, Dean’s still too bitter for it to really sting. He isn’t deluded; he knows Sam’s not some complete innocent in this years-long stand-off with their dad. That Sam pushed and fought and drove Dad’s back to the wall to make him say the words, “If you’re gone, you stay gone.” But he also hates his dad a little for fucking saying it, doing it. 

Sometimes Dean feels like he’s spent his entire life as a mediator, with nobody to be one for him. He’s probably the oldest 22-year-old in the world and, at times like this, when he lets anger at his dad bleed out more than his sense of loyalty and responsibility -- yeah, he resents it. But he also resents Sam for being selfish enough to just go. 

Dean doesn’t always keep the same phone, because you can never be too careful in this kind of life. He’s had his current one for the better part of a year now, yet it's still a surprise when he gets a text at 12:01 on Christmas Eve. Especially when he’d actively decided he wouldn’t be thinking about Sam today. 

_hey. Merry xmas, man_

Dean blinks down at the screen. He’s in bed already. Dad’s in the one next to him. They get two rooms most of the time now, like it's Dad’s way of saying, ‘you’re an adult, I’ll give you your space,’ but really it just makes Dean feel further away from him than he already has these past few months. This time, though, Dad specifically got one, and they had a makeshift Christmas Eve celebration with spiked eggnog and Rudolph on TV. It didn’t feel like much of anything. 

Sam’s text, though, is like a punch to the heart and the gut all at once. 

Dean thinks about how he sent it at 12:01. Like Sam did that purposely because he figured if Dean was on the East coast right now it would be Christmas Day where he is. He tries not to think about how that gesture makes him feel. Tries not to think about Sam, 3,000 miles away from where Dean is in Georgia, sprawled out on his dorm room bed. 

Dean sits up, drags a hand over his face. He looks to his right. Dad’s still sleeping, turned on his side. He grabs his cigarettes from where he hides them in his duffle and a sweatshirt and pads outside. There’s a porch along the string of cheap motel rooms. Dean hoists himself onto the wooden railing and lights up with one hand, cigarette hanging between his lips, still staring at the text.

He wants to say a million things, but he’s suddenly angry. This is the first text he gets in four months? This? 

_u dont even like xmas_

The words aren’t a lie, and he hopes the constraints of texting still allow for the bitterness to seep through. Dean’s never really understood Sam’s aversity to Christmas; he’s hardly ever cared, no matter how much Dean would try to acknowledge it, make it into something. Sure, they didn’t have much growing up, but they had each other, and there were only a few times Dad didn’t make it home for the holidays. And even when he didn’t, Dean tried to make up for it. He fingers the amulet that rests on his chest, recalls the Christmas Sam gave it to him. 

He’s never taken it off. 

Sam hasn’t responded yet and Dean checks to see if he’s lost service. 

His phone vibrates. 

_i never saw the big deal_

Dean closes his eyes, takes a long drag of his cigarette. He took up it up again when Sam left. Dad has no idea, still hates the year Dean spent smoking at age 18, his one form of rebellion. 

Sam never saw the big deal. That was the thing -- Sam just didn’t _see_ sometimes. Just like he wasn’t seeing what this shit was doing to him, to Dad, to their fucking foundation. Dean didn’t know what it was. Sam wasn’t stupid. Maybe he was deliberately obtuse. Maybe he just didn’t fucking _care_. 

_ur staying there then?_ Dean types and it isn’t until after he sends it that he isn’t sure if he means for the holidays or for good. 

Sam answers it with the former. 

_yeah i’ve got an apartment just off campus, doesn’t require you to leave during breaks_

“How convenient,” Dean mutters, exhaling. 

And suddenly, like a switch being flipped, all the fight goes out of him and he’s just tired. So fucking tired. It’s Christmas, and he’s arguing with his brother, and that’s not a novel concept, except Sam should be _here_. Sam belongs where Dean is, so he can rib on him and steal the last of the candy stashed in the glove compartment of the Impala and wish him merry fucking Christmas, you filthy animal. 

_i miss u_ he types, before pounding on the keys to watch the words disappear. 

_i dont know who im supposed to be without u and i dont really want to find out_. Dean stares at the words for long minutes before erasing those as well. 

He rests his forehead against his palm, eyes squeezed shut, before straightening out. 

_how are your classes?_

Dean sinks to the ground and pulls out another cigarette. He smokes one, then another, as his brother tells him about his life now. He hates texting, but he’ll make an exception for Sam. He’ll give this inch, swallow down the hurt at being left behind if he can at least get a glimpse into Sammy’s life now. 

That’s the first Christmas Post-Sam. They don’t get any easier. Dean keeps the phone for as long as he can. When he gets a new one, he gives Sam the number.  
______________________________

4\. 

He meets Cassie two years and an undisclosed amount of hook-ups later. She’s the first person who’s ever made him want to stick around somewhere longer than absolutely necessary -- not even that girl he was crazy about in that one high school did that -- so he does. Dad’s off doing his own thing, and Dean is 24 with nowhere else to be. 

Cassie’s smart and funny, and she makes him look at the world in a different way, like it's something to be savored, lived in, not just a physical place to exist. He wishes that didn’t make him think of Sam, but it does. Because it’s what Sam was craving when he left. Something normal, something meaningful. Something beyond living in the shadows and an inability to share that with other people. 

Except he _wants_ to share it with Cassie. Dean’s not sure why, exactly. Maybe it's to prove to himself he can have both worlds, despite what Sam thinks about that. Maybe it's because she _is_ so much like Sam in so many ways, this firecracker of life and passion. Whatever it is, it’s a feeling he wants to hold on to. 

Dean doesn’t think it’s sublimation (and wouldn’t Sam be so proud be of him for knowing that word, even if it's not something he’d admit to practicing), and he hopes it isn’t. He wants to be able to like someone just for them. Not because they remind him of his stupid, gorgeous little brother.

He gets a few precious weeks with Cassie and dammit, he falls in love. He really does. 

She breaks his heart when he tells her the truth about what he does.

This is why casual sex and full non-disclosure is the only way to go. Hell, he lives a life on the road, it’s the only thing that makes sense, and he’s gotten hella good at it over the past few years, can pick up a woman in seconds flat with a few well-placed words and even more well-placed touches. 

The only other person to break his heart was Sam.

The first year after Sam left, the contacts were few and far between, like neither of them knew what to do, despite Sam having reached out that Christmas. The past year, something shifted. Dean still isn't sure if it was himself or Sam.

They try to talk at least once a week. It’s mostly text, rarely the phone. When Sam asks him what’s new, he tells him about the job in Ohio and the Vetala he hunted afterward. He doesn’t mention Cassie. 

That’s his first relationship Post-Sam. He thinks one is more than enough.  
_______________________________

5\. 

Dean doesn’t hook up with guys. He doesn’t really think of himself as swinging that way, to be honest. He can find guys attractive without thinking, “I wanna hit that.” The only guy he’s truly ever thought that about is the one he’s not supposed to want that way in the first place. 

Sometimes Dean wonders how much of his attraction for his brother is tied up in the fact that it’s _Sam_ _Sam_ _Sam_ and then thinks he’s an even sicker fuck for that. He knows it isn’t all true, though. He knows that if he met Sam somewhere, if he was just some guy, Dean would still want to find out what he looked like spread out on the white sheets of some cheap motel room. 

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the first time he does sleep with a guy is when he’s inadvertently in Florida during Spring Break and some shaggy-haired college kid with a 100 watt smile saunters up to him, all brazen drunkenness, and asks to buy him a drink. 

It’s one of those crowded parties on the beach, where the girls are barely dressed and the guys are either all up on that or too busy homoerotically playing frisbee or beer pong to even notice. 

Dean had been noticing, for sure, but he’d also been noticing this kid. This kid who could’ve been his brother from behind, except he was broader and not as tall. Or maybe he was. Dean had no idea. Had no idea what Sammy even looked like right now. Maybe he’d cut his hair, maybe he’d shot up even more. 

Dad swung around Stanford last month, when Dean was off in Maine dealing with a poltergeist. When Dean asked him how Sammy looked, all he said was, “Good. Happy.” It had been on the tip of his tongue to press him for more details, but it made him uncomfortable at the same time, like he was weird for wanting to know. Like Dad could tell just by looking at Dean that maybe he loved his brother a little too much than was deemed acceptable by society. 

Dean never tells Sam about those visits. He’s too busy being annoyed at Dad for always doing them when Dean isn’t around. It’s not like Dean can’t go himself. Sam invited him to last summer. Hell, Sam invited him on _Spring Break_ , for god’s sake. 

Dean had laughed him off. “Not sure even I’m that much of a creeper, buddy.” 

“Oh my god, you’re 25, not 55,” Sam had said, laughing in his ear. Dean sometimes wondered why they didn’t talk more on the phone and then thought about the way his stomach would flip when Sam laughed and remembered. 

What it came right down to was that Dean was afraid if he ever did go visit Sam, he might never want to leave. 

When Dean realized he’d landed right smack in the middle of Spring Break Miami after finishing up a hunt, it was like the universe had been mocking him, and he just had to give in. 

So he lets the kid, “Timothy. Call me Tim,” buy him a Natty Ice, wincing at the shitty taste but grateful that it always seems to do the trick. 

Half an hour later Dean’s drunk as a skunk and has the kid -- Tim, Timmy -- pressed up against one of the port-a-potties, tongue shoved down his throat and hand shoved down his pants. The kid gasps and moans, and Dean thinks that, for a first pass at this, he’s gotta be doing something. He knows what he likes himself, after all. It’s a lot easier, making it good for Tim. It’s even better when Tim works his hand between them and gets him back. 

The music is loud and pulsing, and no one’s paying them any attention. If Dean says the wrong one syllable name when he comes, well, Tim doesn’t hear him, too lost in the repetitive deafening beats and caught up in his own orgasm to care. 

Dean takes him back to his motel room, and they make a mess of the bed, alternating between sucking and fucking and smoking up and getting wasted. They don’t leave the room for two days except to make a beer and condoms run, giggling like a couple of college kids when they leave the mini mart. Except Tim actually is one, and Dean’s never felt that young, even when he was. 

When he finally says goodbye to Tim at the door, the kid’s got a trail of impressive hickies on his neck and bite marks on his abs. 

“That was some of the best sex of my life,” Tim says, stupidly open and happy, standing there in nothing but his too-short swim trunks that Dean peeled him out of that first night and never let him put back on. Dean has to look away from that smile before he sees a different yet so similar one in its place. 

“Yeah,” Dean replies, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Jesus Christ, the things he did with this kid. Things he never really ever thought about doing, not seriously. It was all just in theory -- a very far away unformed theory, since the only person he wanted to do them with was… 

Tim’s laughter makes him look over. He looks a little embarrassed himself. “Aw, man, I’m glad you decided to wait on the gay freak out until _after_ you fucked me into the mattress.” 

Dean flushes even harder, drags his hand over the back of his neck, biting his lip. God. That had been -- _god_. “You need to go,” he rasps out. “Before I don’t let you.” 

Tim’s eyes sparkle and they make Dean’s heart hurt. He steps in close, kisses Dean long and wet and slow. It nearly makes him drag him back to the bed so they can do it all over again. 

Nearly. 

“You were incredible, man,” Tim says, low, when they break apart. “He’s gonna be one lucky guy when he wises up.” 

Dean blinks at him when he pulls back to open the door and is still doing so when Tim throws over his shoulder, “You say his name when you come. Say it in your sleep, too.” 

Shit. 

Tim looks almost pitiful, and Dean is suddenly so happy he’s leaving. He leans up against the door when he’s finally alone and sinks to the floor. When he finally looks at his phone, he’s got nine new text messages, one from Dad, the rest from Sam. Sam, who was supposed to be on Spring Break himself with his buddies in Palm Springs, yet apparently decided to text Dean up a storm while Dean screwed his look-alike. 

“This is so fucked,” he whispers and blindly hits a button without thinking. 

“Dean! Hey man, where ya been?” 

Sam’s voice washes over him, loud and happy amidst the sounds of some shitty dance song pumping through speakers. 

“Getting stoned and having wild gay sex,” Dean deadpans, because he knows it’ll make Sam laugh and scoff. Because he knows Sam won’t believe him for a second. 

“Shut up! Jerk!” Sam’s laughter is everything, and Dean’s heart aches. 

“What can I say, bitch, you were right. Spring Break is nuts.” 

Sam snorts and tells someone, “Beer, gimme a beer,” before saying, “You shoulda taken me up on my offer, man, you’d love it here!” 

“One day, Sammy, one day.” 

“It’s _Sam_ ,” he huffs, but he sounds happy and carefree, and that’s enough for Dean. It’s been two and a half years since his brother left, and he no longer feels it like a shot to the heart. They can talk on the phone (okay, with breaks), have some semblance of a relationship, even if it’s nothing like the way it used to be. Even if sometimes awkwardness settles in and surrounds Dean in ways he doesn’t know what to do with. Even though he still can’t bring himself to go see him, yet there’s nothing he wants more. 

“Yeah, Sam,” he says on a sigh, mouth curved up in a small, wistful smile as he takes in the mess of the sheets, thinks about how he spent the last two days. 

That’s the first time he hooks up with a guy Post-Sam. The next time it happens. Well. The next time --  
__________________________

+1 

Dean knows better than anyone that there are no real warning signs that lead up to the most formative moments in your life. Still, he can’t help but feel like he should've seen this one coming.

He'd been talking to Sam more recently, letting down his guard. Sam was doing the same. He'd call Dean when he drunk and happy after a Friday night out at a bar. Dean still couldn't believe his baby brother was now legal to drink. He almost went to see Sammy for his 21st birthday, but held back again. 

"You'd like it here, Dean," Sam was saying now, all slurred speech and too-loud voice. "So warm for November. Could show you the ocean."

"I hate the ocean," Dean says, smiling through the gruffness because drunk Sammy was too damn infectious. It was easier than saying _I hate November_. 

"You do not." Sam sounds scandalized. 

Too. Damn. Infectious. 

"I burn,” Dean says dryly. _Don’t think about fire_. 

"Mm, yeah, your freckles."

"You leave my freckles alone.” It’s his turn to be mock-scandalized. 

"I like 'em," Sam slurs. "Used to wanna connect them with my fingers when I was kid."

Dean sits up bolt right at that. He forces out a laugh, trying to ignore the liquid warmth in Sam's words and the way it's seeping right into his own body. "Jesus, man, you're a lightweight." 

"M'not. I had three shots."

"Oh _wow_ , a whole three?!"

"Shut up, Dean. You suck. I dunno why I miss you."

Dean's jaw snaps shut. _You miss me?_ he wants to ask. He’s wondered at that more than he’d like to admit. Sometimes it felt unfathomable, despite their conversations, that Sam truly did miss him. In Dean’s sense of reality, it doesn’t add up with being able to leave. Sam never asked about Dad, and Dean would wonder at that, too. If he wanted to. If Sammy, his too-emotional-for-his-own-good baby brother, had somehow stopped caring. 

He doesn’t give into the urge. "You're such a sappy drunk, man. Chick flick central,” is what he says instead, and then curses his own overwhelming fear. 

"Just tellin’ -- tellin’ the truth, man. Miss you, Dean. You should be here."

Dean’s finding it hard to get air into his lungs. "See, now, this is why Dad chewed my ass out when we broke into Bobby's moonshine that one summer. You just can't hold your alcohol, Sammy boy, gonna be puking any minute now."

"M'not," Sam insists, pout heavy in his voice. God, it should be annoying, not infuriatingly cute. "M'fine and you should just tell me you miss me, Dean, ‘cause I know ya do."

Jesus Christ, Dean had forgotten just how stubborn his little brother was. 

He drags his palm over his face, lets out a shuddering breath. "Why you gotta hear it if you're so sure, college boy?"

Sam's quiet for a moment, and Dean wonders if he's passed out in a drunken stupor. 

When Sam's voice finally comes it's soft. "Because. Because I just do, man."

Dean wants to be angry, wants to tell Sam to stop asking for even more pieces of him, that he has enough as it is. Except he never really could deny his brother anything. 

He flops onto his back on the bed, closes his eyes, huffs out a breath. 

"Yeah, I fuckin' miss you, you annoying shit. You happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Sam says without a hint of sarcasm. 

One word and deflates all of Dean's posturing. It’s three years of missing his brother, wanting him in ways that make his bones ache, all coming to a head. It’s the need to finally just push the fucking words out instead choking on them every fucking day of his life. 

"I miss you,” Dean says with feeling this time, wishing he could pass all this off on alcohol like Sam, yet also fiercely proud that he can’t. “Shit, I miss you, Sam.” 

"Dean," Sam says, in a way no one has ever or will ever say his name. Broken, desperate, like it's the only thing that matters. 

It can't be. If it was the only thing that mattered, Sam would be here. 

Dean lets himself forget that for a moment, lets sheer want take over him. His fingers find the waistband of his jeans before he realizes what he’s doing, dipping just beneath.

"Sam," he breathes out, an echo. He licks at his bottom lip, finds his eyes transfixed on a water mark on the ceiling. 

"I -- Dean, I --"

He feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, even though Sam's not in it with him. Dean doesn't think he has this wrong, yet can't fathom how they got from point A to point B. All he knows is that they're here now. He knows it the same way he knows demons exist and that Sam's favorite food is peanut butter and banana sandwiches. 

He also knows he could stop it, right now. Should, even. Sam's drunk, and okay, maybe he’s not that far gone like he says, but he’s still impaired, and Dean’s his big brother, and he'll hate himself for this in the morning if Sam doesn't hate him first. 

"What are you doing, Sam?" Dean whispers, voice rough.

He could mean it as questioning Sam's motivations or asking what he's actually doing right this second. Hell, he might mean it as both. 

Sam answers the way he hoped he would.

"I'm -- on my bed. In my jeans." 

Dean’s breathing hitches, and he bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. "You touchin' yourself?"

He listens to Sam gasp, and it's the most gorgeous sound in the world. "Yeah. I'm -- yeah, Dean."

Dean groans, deep in his throat, rubs more insistently at his dick through his own jeans, pictures Sam doing the same. "Good, that's good, Sammy."

Sam doesn't correct the nickname for once, and Dean's heart swells along with his dick. 

"You too, Dean. You gotta." Sam's breathless, desperate. He's fucking perfect. 

"Believe me, I am," he moans, undoing his jeans with one hand and sliding his palm inside. 

"Oh god. Can't believe, _Dean_."

Dean chokes on a moan, eyes rolling back in his head as his breathing quickens. He fumbles with his shitty cellphone, puts Sam on speaker so he can ruck up his t-shirt, already slick with sweat. 

Dean’s never done this before. Never had the cause to. All of his hookups happen in person, and he never gives out his number. He would've given it to Cassie, if she'd wanted it. 

No, this is just one more thing that belongs solely to Sam. It's fitting. It makes him want to burn from the inside out. 

"God, Sammy, you drive me crazy,” words slurring together like he's the drunk one. All heat and no finesse. 

It's too much to say, dangerous as fuck. But all the words do is make Sam gasp harder. 

"You sound farther away, man."

Dean grins, arches up into his own hand after shoving his jeans and boxers down around his thighs and licking his palm. "Got you on speaker."

"Oh," Sam replies, and Dean can see the crease between his forehead from here as he furrows his brow. "Lemme do that." 

Sam does, and it's awkward for a moment, like they've lost the momentum, until Sam whispers, "Want you to touch me, man," and Dean nearly loses it. 

"Tell me what you want," Dean says. It's a total cop-out, easier than confessing to Sam his deepest desires. 

"Your hands. Want you to touch me everywhere, Dean. Kiss me. Shit, I dream about your mouth." 

Dean moans, a low, broken thing. He wants so bad for that to be true. His dick leaps in his palm, pre-come gathering at the tip. He spreads it down the shaft, pushes up into his fist. 

"Wish I could see you, all spread out for me," Dean gasps. “Gonna put my mouth all over you, Sammy. Your lips, chest, your neck. Your dick."

"Dean--"

"Make you come for me, baby."

"Oh my god, Dean."

“Shit,” he rasps, jerking himself harder, faster. “Do it, Sam, c’mon.” 

“Oh, oh _fuck_ , _Dean_.” 

Dean knows Sam is coming the second it starts, and he knows the sounds will be burned into his brain for all time. 

He follows Sam over the edge, dick rubbed raw and chest heaving, tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. “Sammy,” he chants over and over like the only prayer he’s ever believed in. 

It's quiet for a while after, just the sounds of their rapid breathing slowly evening out. The water stain looks like it's grown in size, but Dean knows it's probably just his imagination. 

"Sam," Dean says when the silence goes on for too long. 

"Mmm?" 

Dean's stomach dips and flips. There's so much he should say right now. It feels like a turning point in his life. 

"Sammy, get some sleep," he says. 

"Mmmph, 'kay. Night, Dean," Sam says, sated and content, and Dean knows he was nearly there anyway.

Dean doesn't sleep. He spends the next day waiting for something, anything, that doesn't come. 

Two days later he gets a call from Sam. He holds his breath, but still nothing happens, except Sam telling him he met a girl last night. His heart feels like it breaks all over again. 

Dean wonders if he miscalculated. If Sam’s a coward after all. 

That's the first time Dean has phone sex Post-Sam. He has no idea if Sam remembers it or not, but he stops returning Sam's calls either way, sticking to stilted, impersonal texts that make his own skin itch. Even those become few and far between, and suddenly it's that first year after Sam left all over again. He’s not sure if it’s Sam or himself that shifted. 

He doesn't learn the girl's name is Jessica until he's standing in Sam's -- _their_ living room twelve months later.  
_______________________

The first time Dean lays eyes on his brother in four years, he feels like he's free falling off a cliff, and not just because Sammy knocks him off his gait, can still spar like he’d never stopped hunting. There’s more for Dean to wrestle with now, sleek muscle and too many acres of skin, recollections of a night when he put into words all the secrets his body holds. 

He gives in to the descent, realizing there's no escaping Sam. There never was. 

[end]


End file.
